Exitus Acta Probat
by Sempra Viridis
Summary: Two men struggle to control one man's soul.
1. The Light

He puts the young man back together every time he returns.

He knows he sends him on a fool's errand, practically throwing him into the maw of the beast. Every time the young man returns relatively unscathed, he can breathe a long-held sigh of relief. Yet the ecstasy is brief, for the game resumes all too soon, and it is not long before he again receives the broken, battered body of his most trusted confidant. He will tend to his wounds, staunch the blood flow and set the broken bones. What he cannot heal, she can. And what she cannot heal can only be ameliorated by a miracle.

Each time the young man returns, there is some small part of him that is missing. And when he tries to put him back together, the pieces make an incomplete whole. First, it was the color in the young man's cheeks, too little to begin with. The unhealthy paleness became a sickly, sallow tone that settled with confident bravado on a gaunt face.

Next, the flicker of life in the young man's eyes seemed to diminish. Far from warm in the first place, those obsidian pools became stagnant and lifeless, and any spark that seemed to burst forth from the ether was malevolent and cold, fueled by a deep-seated anger that had never abated.

Gradually, the young man began to lose weight, lose his sense of time, lose his grip on reality. Every shadow was a threat, every break of day a fresh torment. He carried antivenins and bezoars on his person, within the voluminous folds of his black cloak that he had begun to wear in the chill of the dungeons.

The young man is a shattered, crooked mosaic of pieces forced into some sort of accord in order to keep him moving, keep him breathing, keep him ready and able to fight through one more night. One more night of hellish torture, interrogation and debasement.

He holds the young man in his arms as he weeps, shaking from the after-effects of a torturous curse. He knows it is only a matter of time before the tenuous thread that anchors the young man to reality will be severed. And when the young man is left dangling on the precipice of his own mind, he will be the one to finally push him off of the edge, and hope that he can piece him back together at the bottom.

Yet he knows, as he wipes tears from the bruised and tear-stained face, that he cannot do what he has promised. There are some injuries he will not be able to mend, some scars he will not be able to heal.

There are some sins for which he can never atone.


	2. The Dark

I know that I have lost him.

I sense it in the easy gait he has acquired in my presence, the lack of fear in his black eyes. He had once regarded me with hesitance and trepidation; now, it is cool indifference. It is more than the bravado one gains when maturing from a gangling youth to an older man. There is something he is hiding from me, some knowledge he has attained in my absence, that lets him speak to me—to me!—with an open, calm exterior. He does not grovel as the others do, kissing my robes and beseeching me to grant mercy. He does not boast of his ill-gotten gains while torturing Mudbloods and their ilk, nor does he disparage his comrades for their own small victories. He is silent.

This silence unsettles me. When he is not speaking, it means he is thinking. And when he is thinking, he is dangerous. I can use his skills to my advantage, but there is something lurking beneath the surface that I cannot quite grasp, something that makes all of him inaccessible. I cannot use what I cannot control.

For now, he eludes me, and my grip on him is tenuous. He knows this. I can feel it in the casual smirk he affects when he speaks to me. He tries to rearrange his features into something more bland, less offensive. But he cannot. I have always known this of my faithful servant. He has always been caustic, the acid that disintegrates all that it touches. He has never balked at the more gruesome tasks assigned to him. If he does enjoy it, he does not show it. He simply performs his tasks with minimalist efficiency.

His lack of emotion made him a malleable tool in the beginning. I took what was already cold and detached and molded him into a colder, more calculating dealer of death. His dueling skills were highly regarded, his intellect sharp and cunning. He would have been a valuable resource for the enemy, had he been influenced by their propaganda. But he remained untarnished, unaffected. Their ways were not appealing, their mindless cavorting with lesser beings revolted him. He remained pure, despite his own dubious lineage.

He divulged to me, in these early days, that his father was a Muggle, a lowborn scum with no respect for intelligence and no desire to improve his lot in life. He had learned then, as a young boy, not to trust Muggles, with their puerile minds and boorish behaviors. The true strength of his character was his ability to suppress the innate, weaker nature bestowed by his father. I have done so myself, triumphing over the baser, less refined instincts given by my own weak-minded fool of a father.

Has he then found some cause, some higher purpose, which draws him away from me and capitalizes on the higher functions of Muggles? Does he have designs on becoming the Dark Lord himself? Or is he simply bored, tired of this war that, once started many years ago, has been reborn with renewed fervor?

He spies on the movements of the Order of the Phoenix for me, dripping honeyed words in the old man's ear and dancing to his tune while reporting to me their movements and suspicions. He would never align himself with such a maladjusted, ragtag group of useless witches and wizards. They are beneath him. A werewolf, a deranged and maimed former Auror, a drunkard and a cluster of inexperienced children, all commanded by an arthritic meddler with skewed perceptions of good and evil; these are not enemies. These are not legions to be feared. They are pawns to be played by him, and with one move, one whispered word, he could destroy them.

He knows this. He knows the power he wields. Yet he defers to me, returns to my side with information vital to the sustenance of my reign, and then returns to the shadows. Perhaps he is not lost after all. Perhaps he is still in my grip. He is strong, yes, but not quite strong enough to part from me. If he does, I will kill him.

I shall regret it.


End file.
